


Safety Inimitable

by HigherMagic



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: (not hannigram), Accidental Bonding, Alpha Hannibal Lecter, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Attempted Sexual Assault, Bottom Will Graham, Canon-Typical Violence, Creampie, Hannibal Lecter is the Chesapeake Ripper, M/M, Male Lactation, Mating Bond, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Mpreg, Multiple Orgasms, Mutual Pining, Omega Will Graham, Top Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham Knows
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-22
Updated: 2020-11-22
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:22:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27662650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HigherMagic/pseuds/HigherMagic
Summary: Will shouldn't be here, but he is. He shouldn't go inside, but he does. He shouldn't stay, and yet…He's getting close to his heat. It comes like clockwork, so he can't even use the excuse that it snuck up on him. Sure, maybe the severity in the days leading up to it has felt a little more powerful than usual, but he can chalk that up to stress. Because he is stressed. Hannibal helps, when he's stressed. Hannibal doesn't comment on his scent, the gold in his eyes, the heat radiating off him like a furnace. He's polite like that. He's safe, he's a good Alpha, impeccably in control of his instincts. He couldn't break even if Will wanted to break him.So he's here. He's inside. He stays.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 69
Kudos: 1097
Collections: Will Graham & Hannibal Lecter





	Safety Inimitable

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ficsofthecavern](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ficsofthecavern/gifts).



> Inspired by this thread on Twitter: https://twitter.com/outofthecavern/status/1313480738185113600?s=20  
> Thank you darling, for letting me take this thread and run with it! :D

Will shouldn't be here, but he is.

He shouldn't go inside, but he does.

He shouldn't stay, and yet…

He's getting close to his heat. It comes like clockwork, so he can't even use the excuse that it snuck up on him. Sure, maybe the severity in the days leading up to it has felt a little more powerful than usual, but he can chalk that up to stress. Because he is stressed.

Hannibal helps, when he's stressed.

Hannibal doesn't comment on his scent, the gold in his eyes, the heat radiating off him like a furnace. He's polite like that. He's safe, he's a good Alpha, impeccably in control of his instincts. He couldn't break even if Will wanted to break him.

So he's here. He's inside. He stays.

Hannibal is a doctor, so he knows about things like pre-heat cravings, cramping, discomfort. He offers Will sweet wine that Will knows he wouldn't have originally paired with the meal. He adapts to Will's needs because, _God_ , he's a good Alpha like that. He dims the lights so that Will doesn't get a headache, his wide pupils taking in too much light. He plays music, soft and low, vibrating choruses of cellos and double bass to soothe Will's trembling bones and too-tight skin. He feeds Will a protein-rich dinner and doesn't press for conversation as much as he usually does.

Will is so _aware_ of him. So drawn to him, has been since the moment they met, though he resisted. Mostly because their relationship could _only_ be professional, and then because by the time it didn't have to be, it was too late. Hannibal didn't make a move and Will wasn't going to be that kind of Omega, who threw themselves at any Alpha who gave them the time of day.

His jaw aches, his teeth itch. Hannibal smells so good and Will is so hungry. Every time Hannibal refills his wine glass it's all Will can do not to reach out, touch him, pull him closer. He's warm. Will has a fever now and it makes him feel like he's freezing to death. Alpha could help with that. Alpha is big and strong, safe, he's safe. Will is safe. Will's thoughts and body and tongue are safe, here.

Dinner is followed by dessert, another cascade of sweetness, chocolate and cream and mint, cool on his tongue and soothing his sore throat. He's been whining in his sleep, he knows that. Will can't get enough water.

When dinner is over, Will catches Hannibal's eye. He doesn't want to be that kind of Omega, but if Hannibal wants him to be, then fuck, maybe just once. Just one night, he'd – he could try. He'd be good at it. He's never had any complaints. Hannibal just looks so large in the room, he's warm, he's everywhere, Will just wants to know what his mouth tastes like.

Alpha could make him feel so warm, inside and out. He's bigger than Will, he could cover Will completely, blanket him with his body and flood his insides with liquid heat. He could make Will burn again.

He shivers and looks away. Bares his throat and pets it like he's been doing compulsively for the last twenty-four hours. Anything that doesn't smell like him is offensive to his senses. That includes this room, this house, and the man inside it.

"Will." Hannibal's voice crawls up the back of Will's throat, carves through his skull and settles like a hunting cat in long grasses, waiting for the perfect moment to lunge. Will's lashes go low. He looks in Hannibal's direction. Hannibal has had a lot of wine too, the soft gleam in his eyes red and brilliant in the low light. He looks like a monster. He looks like something that could tear Will to shreds in the best possible way.

Hannibal breathes in. It's loud, unsubtle in a way Hannibal rarely is, and rakes down Will's spine like nails. He mimics, matches, as Hannibal's eyes drop to Will's empty wine glass, to the bottle they killed – one of at least two. Maybe three if the first one was already open.

"Perhaps you should stay the night," Hannibal offers. Will blinks slowly. "I certainly wouldn't risk driving, and the weather outside is -."

"Frightful?" Will teases.

Hannibal smiles at him warmly. "Unfriendly," he corrects. "Unsafe."

 _Safe_. Alpha is safe.

"Hannibal," Will breathes. "I'll stay the night."

Hannibal's approval warms Will, but with it comes a flash, not at all sudden. More like a bubble bursting, he's waited a lifetime for it to finally collapse and surrender to the pressure of it all. Will's fingers tremble and curl around his own thighs, he dares not shift his weight, dares not move because he knows as soon as he does, he'll reveal how _ready_ he is. There's no way to ping the web without alerting the spider.

Ah, but the spider already knows he's there. He invited Will in.

Hannibal tilts his head. "I can make up the guest bedroom," he says.

"No," Will replies. "Don't."

Hannibal considers him.

"Don't," Will says again, and hopes Hannibal can see how sure he is. Will shouldn't be here, he shouldn't have come in, he shouldn't have stayed. But he is and he did and now he wants to. He reaches, and Hannibal gravitates to him, offering his upturned palm for Will to touch. He does, fingertips only, tracing the lines, the small calluses from pen and scalpel, the bulge of veins on the back of his hand.

"Will," Hannibal says. "You're going into heat."

"I know," Will replies. He looks up. "You let me come in anyway."

Hannibal smiles. "I did."

"And you want me to stay."

"I do."

"Then God, Hannibal, let me stay," Will whispers. "It doesn't have to be a big deal. People have sex without bonding all the time."

Hannibal considers that, and nods. "They do."

"Can you?"

"Yes."

He's so self-assured. So in control. So _safe_.

"I don’t want to go through this on my own," Will whispers. He's done it before, before Hannibal, and doesn't want to do it again. He swallows the rest of that sentiment back because he just cited impermanence, just this once, but he gets the feeling that Hannibal hears it anyway like an echo from the other side of a wall.

That's the final nail in the coffin. He sees it land, a glint of metal in Hannibal's eyes. Hannibal rises, taking Will's hand, and circles the table, pulling Will to his feet.

"You want to be here." He doesn't say it to compel. If he has a Voice, he's not using it. Will wants to laugh and tease him and say he'll sign a fucking waiver if he has to. He doesn't, he merely nods. Alphas like Hannibal demand obedience and submission, and by God, Will wants to give it to him.

"I want to be here," he rasps. He is the echo, now. The tip of his nose touches Hannibal's smooth jaw. Hannibal's exhale warms his cheek, shuddering. Will is freezing cold and feels like there's a barrier between himself and the fire. If he could just figure out how to break it apart and get to the flames. If he could make his shaking hands _touch_ , reach, _take_. He's freezing cold and damp with sweat and flushed with wine and heat.

Hannibal says nothing, merely slides his free hand into Will's hair, cradling his skull, just barely teasing the corded muscle and scent-heavy bonding glands. Will's mouth floods with saliva, he inhales. Hannibal's scent fills his mouth, his nose, his lungs. His skull and the empty, soaking wet hollow of his body that aches to be filled. Rising to his feet caused slick to leak out and it's heavy and thick as sweat in the middle of the night.

The lights are low and Will's vision is starting to go hazy, his senses relying more on scent and touch and hearing to ensure he doesn't get hunted by a predator. He leans against Hannibal and noses at his jaw. Alpha will keep him safe, he doesn't have to be afraid of anything. Let the natural world dare to separate them now; they are ready to ascend.

Hannibal rubs his cheek against Will's, a soft purr starting in his chest. Will has found his way to the pound of his heart, feeling it racing and heavy. He's so strong, in his physical prime, quivering like a stallion in the starting gate. Will's slick has started to drip past his knees.

Hannibal's stillness is almost unnatural, like he's waiting for Will to do something. One last bid for consent, for control. It's a fight to stay on his feet, not to simply turn and bow and present. It would be poetic, he thinks, for Hannibal to cover and consume him in this room, but it's too open for his instincts and there are too many blind spots and points of ingress.

"Hannibal," he whispers. Hannibal uses the grip on his hair to pull him back, and Will's neck has no more resistance than a newborn. He tips his chin up, throat exposed and ready to be marked, shoulders low, an offer. He sees Hannibal's upper lip twitch back in the barest, most restrained reaction, but the red in his eyes is blistering and bright. Will flattens his hand over Hannibal's heart, and squeezes his fingers with the other. They're holding onto each other like a lifeline. Will can't see anything that isn't the Alpha's face.

He presses closer, slides his hand up to Hannibal's shoulder, brings his other one around so Hannibal can touch where he's wet and warm. He lets go and Hannibal's hands tighten on him. Will gasps and Hannibal lunges, their lips meeting and Hannibal's tongue immediately claiming the space between Will's teeth. The gasp turns into a ragged, desperate sound, as Will tightens his grip on Hannibal's shoulder and lets the Alpha pull him close. The heat radiating off of Hannibal is maddening, Will finally reached the fire and shoved himself right into it.

Hannibal guides him, backwards. Will's shoulder hits the doorjamb and his knees buckle, prompting Hannibal to tighten his hand in Will's hair and slide his other one down the back of Will's wet thigh, a rumble of apology fed and swallowed. Will doesn't mind, he hardly notices. He takes another step back, prompting the Alpha to give chase.

They make it to the bedroom in a haze of rough kisses and bruising grips. Will is finally warm, and while before he wanted to curl up and nest in blankets and sunlight, now he craves darkness. He needs his clothes off him because they're chafing and he's too fucking hot. He's not nearly coordinated enough for buttons, zippers, even letting go of Hannibal long enough to try.

But of course, he should have known Alpha would take care of him. He always has the answers.

Hannibal's hand _finally_ slides to the nape of his neck and Will sags against him, barely upright, panting against Hannibal's shoulder as he tries to catch his breath. He feels too high off the ground, dizzy and _needy_. His heats have never hit him this hard, but he's never had an Alpha whom he trusts and desires as much as Hannibal.

" _Hannibal_ ," he rasps. "Please. I can't -."

"I have you, Will," Hannibal replies. He grips Will's nape and nuzzles the curl of hair behind his ear. "It's alright. Sink, as deep as you need to. I won't let you drown."

Will closes his eyes as Hannibal lowers him to the carpeted floor, crouched in front of him, so warm, his hands big and gentle as he slowly undresses Will. The brush of fresh air on his shoulders makes them hunch up and tense, his exposed stomach is vulnerable, his wrists too raw to bear the gathering of fabric at the cuffs. He tears them off and his shirt falls, and Hannibal smiles and kisses his forehead in reward.

"Good, Will. Down a little further for me." Will feels pressure at the back of his neck and doesn't fight it. His forearms flatten, palms down, his head hanging between his straining biceps as Hannibal pushes him down by the back of his neck, so he's presenting properly. Will can't see, he doesn't know what color the carpet is, only that he's dripping sweat and slick onto it and making it go dark. Hannibal's hand rubs down his back, careful to keep pressure on Will's neck so he doesn't panic or buck. Will's belt is undone and pulled free so quickly it's like a punch. His slacks and underwear follow soon after, unfastened and coaxed over his ass and down to his knees.

The snarl that breaks the silence makes Will whimper, bowing down more, arching and stretching his arms out in front of him. The carpet burns his sensitive skin and turns it red. His breath mists back on his face as he shoves his forehead to the ground and _whines_.

Hannibal purrs for him, and slides his hand into Will's hair, guiding him back up. He kisses Will so that Will doesn't have to care about how naked he is while Hannibal is still fully clothed. And he doesn't. He's far past that point now. Hannibal picks him up like he weighs nothing and carries him to bed, and pulls Will's shoes, socks, and wet clothes off him completely as Will sinks back onto cool, black sheets.

This is what he wanted. Hannibal didn't turn on the lights, there's only the soft orange glow of streetlamps outside, casting Hannibal in half-shadows that make him look even bigger and reflect the glow of red in his eyes. He's encased in darkness with an Alpha who is safe and strong, capable, controlled.

Will reaches for him, shoving at his suit jacket until it falls off Hannibal's shoulders and he slides it off. Then, his tie, undone by the knot and tugged over his head. Will holds him with both hands and nuzzles Hannibal's hair as the action musses it, making it fall forward and darken his eyes. He can feel Hannibal smile against his throat, before Hannibal parts his teeth and bites down.

Will moans, every muscle in him whiting out in static. The only thing he is aware of is how big and warm Hannibal is, shoving him down into the abyss. Hannibal distracts him with more of those rough, promising suck-kisses as he sheds his waistcoat and shirt, and Will almost sobs at the sudden feeling of warm skin, coarse chest hair, thick muscle.

" _Hannibal_ ," he snarls, the last of his wafer-thin patience going nuclear. He tugs on Hannibal's hair and kisses him roughly, claws in Hannibal's back dragging him between Will's thighs. He moans and sinks his teeth into Hannibal's lower lip when he feels the Alpha's cock, still inside his clothes, rut and grind against Will's. Will is dripping slick, heat coming for him. The wildcat has lunged and he's so _hungry_ and _empty_.

"Fuck," he hisses, when Hannibal's hand slides up his shaking thigh, and Will feels pressure. _Yes_ , fuck, he needs something inside him or he's going to lose his fucking mind. Hannibal rears up and plants a hand on Will's chest, eyes sharp as he pushes two fingers into Will. He wants to watch, Will realizes. To assess and gauge and _see_ Will's reactions.

Will drags his nails down Hannibal's chest and moans for him, tilting his head to one side and baring his throat. Hannibal's upper lip twitches again, showing Will those dangerous teeth that mere moments ago where so close to his pulse. His fingers shove in, thick and with no hesitation and Will gasps, nodding weakly. He needs the weight of Hannibal on his chest or he's going to fly off the bed.

It takes a single curl, one light stroke of Hannibal's fingers inside him, just that tease of stretch like a promising knot, for Will to come. He does it silently, choking on his whimpers and whining at a pitch he's sure Hannibal can't actually hear.

Hannibal snarls, a brief, sudden, striking flash of something monstrous and satisfied on his face. The scent of his arousal is like fresh blood and woodsmoke, things Will knows far too well and craves so much. He smiles at Will, proud and pleased, and pulls his fingers out. They're shining with Will's slick, there's so much of it. Will watches, wide-eyed, as Hannibal adds some of Will's come to the mess, and licks them clean.

"Oh, _fuck_ ," Will whispers raggedly. His orgasm did nothing to calm his heat, just made him tired, but watching Hannibal eagerly devour him makes his heart race and he knows Hannibal can feel it. Will clings to him, wet thighs chafing on Hannibal's suit pants. Hannibal growls, lashes going low as Will desperately ruts against him. "Please, Hannibal, don't make me fucking wait anymore."

"I assure you, Will, I have no intention of doing so." He lunges for Will and tugs his hands up, forcing Will's knuckles against the headboard. "Keep them there," he growls, nuzzling Will's throat. "If you can."

Will swallows and digs his nails into the top of the mattress, determined to hold on, to be good. Hannibal kisses him in reward, and Will hears him shedding the last of his clothes, and then _finally_ , Hannibal's cock ruts against his own soft one, smearing through the mess of slick and come and sweat. Will whimpers weakly, wanting to reach up and _touch_ , but Alpha said not to and he needs to be good if he's going to get what he wants.

Hannibal nuzzles him, and kisses him, one hand sliding into his hair and curling around the back of his neck. He squeezes and Will gasps. Lets him in. Hannibal's other hand coaxes his hips up, another offering. Will spreads his legs and licks behind Hannibal's teeth. He came and he stayed and now, he accepts: Hannibal's tongue in his mouth, nails digging into his hip, Hannibal's cock catching on his wet rim and sinking inside.

The sound Will lets out, he's not sure he could call it human. He loses the fight with himself quickly and rakes his nails down Hannibal's back, drawing him in as Hannibal fills him up with one solid, hard thrust. He's wet and heavy and surrounded by darkness and heat and it's so fucking good he can't think of anything else. Hannibal doesn't give him any time to adjust, either.

He's relentless. The bed creaks as Hannibal mounts Will, hand sliding up from his hip to pin Will down, fingers around Will's wrist until they, too, move and spread and lace with Will's fingers. Hannibal kisses him like he was made for just this, to completely encase Will and for them to assimilate, rough edges ground to dust, fullness and heat and the stinging rake of claws, the burn of friction, the bite of teeth.

Will is so lost to it, his second orgasm takes him by surprise. He clamps down around Hannibal's thick cock, that feels like it was perfectly made to fill him up, every sensitive spot found and lit on fucking fire. He covers their stomachs with come as Hannibal devours his breathless cries of pleasure, feeds him air and warmth and promise.

"Don't stop," Will begs, clinging with everything he has.

He sees just the corner of Hannibal's smile in the low light. "I would happily have you like this the whole night," he replies, breathless, "but we both know you need more." Will's answer is lost in another ragged noise, as Hannibal pushes deep into him and Will feels the first slight swell of his knot. Hannibal pulls back out before he can lock, his rhythm never faltering, but now Will can _only_ think of that one thing. Hannibal's knot, yes, he wants it. He needs it. Hannibal can stop the bleeding, flood Will to bursting, give him what he _needs_.

He bares his teeth and gets a bite in answer, sharp and hard enough to break skin as Hannibal lets his nape and hand go and grips Will's hips to hold him still. As though he, too, can think of nothing else now that he's mentioned it. His snarl is loud and Will answers him with sweet cries of his own, goading Hannibal on with pleas and purrs and the shameless drag of his nails along Hannibal's lower back. He's sure it hurts but Hannibal doesn't seem to care in the slightest. He has never been repulsed by Will's suggestions of brutality, his darkness.

He brought Will to the darkness, where they are both made safe and whole.

"Please, Hannibal," Will whispers. He nudges Hannibal's forehead to coax him away from Will's bloody neck and tastes it on Hannibal's tongue. "Please, knot me. I need it _._ "

Hannibal's rhythm stutters, and Will growls in victory. Hannibal collapses over him, no more finesse, no more precision. He fists the sheets and wraps his arms beneath Will's shoulders, lowering himself so that every inch of their bodies is connected into one single, writhing beast. His thrusts grow hard and brutal, Will only held in place because he can't physically go anywhere else.

Will slides a hand into Hannibal's hair and grips tight, pulls Hannibal to his neck, and flicks the spider's web one last time; "I need you, Hannibal," he whispers. " _Please_."

Hannibal snarls into his neck, and bites down savagely, his hips jerking as he presses deep inside Will and his knot swells, splitting Will apart. The bright point of pain is tempered by the sudden rush of endorphins immediately after, as Will's body convulses, the stretch of Hannibal's knot enough for his heat-addled mind to command _surrender_ , and he comes between their stomachs again, body clenching tight so he can milk Hannibal's knot for all he's worth.

Hannibal shudders, and starts to come, a heavy flood of heat that finally douses the desperation and cools it to satisfaction. Will sighs, purring and petting Hannibal's sweaty hair so that Alpha can hear, feel, how good it was, how good he made Will feel. Hannibal licks his neck, nuzzles his jaw, and holds him tightly as he tries to catch his breath.

They don't say anything. The threat of impermanence stills Will's tongue. He won't have long before he's blind and sinking again, and now is not the time to address the fact that this evening, this night, this _moment_ , doesn't feel like something that can happen just once.

Hannibal lifts his head, and kisses Will deeply, answering Will's sated purr with a rumble of his own. He shifts, grinding his knot deep into Will, sparking pleasure up his spine with pressure on his prostate, and Will closes his eyes, bares his throat, and lets himself be dragged right back down again.

It's been a year.

More specifically, it's been three hundred and sixty-two days, three hours, and thirteen minutes.

Not that he's counting or anything.

Will has a routine now. He keeps it perfectly attuned so that he doesn't get a lot of time to himself. He makes stupid decisions when he's allowed to think. So he doesn't allow himself time to think. Thankfully, Mischa seems to have inherited Will's penchant for nightmares, and has him up at all hours with her crying.

Like now. It's three in the morning and Will is in his daughter's bedroom, which might as well be his at this point given how often he's in here, and she's in his arms, nursing like she wasn't screaming bloody murder less than two minutes ago. Will is sore and exhausted, barely awake, and hoping that if he falls asleep he'll wake up before he does something really stupid like drop her.

It's the magic hour. Deep enough into summer that the days are very long. Despite the early hour, the sky looks brighter than pure black, the darkness chased away for another day. Dawn will come soon. Will stares out of the window, trying to stay awake; he might as well. He usually forces himself to take a nap between eleven and noon, so if he can just stay awake until then…

Mischa burbles, coughs, and promptly spits up on him.

"Charming," Will mutters, and gathers her up, taking her back to bed so he can lay her down and change. She blinks up at him – she got Will's eyes, Will's hair consistency, though it's darker than Will's was even as a baby.

She didn't get Will's face. Her cheekbones, even under the puppy fat, are sharper, the shape of her eye sockets more pronounced than Will's. Her jaw slightly less square.

She stares up at Will with the same assessing air he did, too.

Will tucks her in and makes sure she doesn't have anything else to throw up on him, or coming out the other end – not like she gives him any warning for that, either – and leaves when he's determined that she'll be good, for a few more hours at least. He leaves the door partially open, overly paranoid about the handle getting stuck, or there being some barrier between him and his child that he cannot cross.

He pulls his shirt off over his head, grimacing at the scent and the consistency, not quite dried yet, and throws it into his hamper. He needs to do laundry anyway. He needs to do a lot of things. Despite his schedule, insistently making sure he doesn't have a lot of time to himself, he also doesn't give himself a lot of time for household chores.

Chores are meditative. Doing the dishes, vacuuming, laundry, those don't engage his brain. His mind will wander, far away, across the sea, West…

 _Ah, damn it_.

He shakes himself back to reality and takes a shower as cold as he can stand it. Comfort leads to loss of control, and Will can't afford to be comfortable.

Will only took Winston with him when he left. If Winston minds being left alone at night, without his brothers and sisters to keep him company, he doesn't seem to blame Will for his loneliness. He sleeps outside Mischa's room.

When Will drags himself from bed at seven in the morning, Winston gives him a soulful look, tail swishing along the ground once. More sweeping than Will's done in a fucking month.

He leans down to pat Winston's head, and then heads past him, taking advantage of the fact that Mischa is still sleeping to get coffee started. She inherited her father's sense of smell, so once that scent reaches her Will won't get a moment to start it, and it's a lot easier to play catch-up without a temperamental baby in his arms.

He has a baby monitor in practically every room of the house, set to different frequencies, with a single box in Mischa's room that transmits to all of them – updated and tinkered with by his own hand when trying to just have them all on either caused excessive feedback or had him chasing down noises all the time because it sounded like she was crying in every single room, making both Winston and his sleep-deprived mind too on edge to function.

He enters the kitchen, staring with dismay at the pile of dishes, the fridge he knows is empty, the stains around Winston's water bowl he hasn't cleaned. Jesus Christ, when did he become so _messy_? Having a kid is bound to make some things fall to the wayside, sure, but Will always kind of assumed that the real disasters came when the kid could run around and make them themselves.

Of course, he knows the answer. Hormone imbalances, stress caused by separation from his mate even though they hadn't bonded – the stress of pregnancy _while_ unbonded, then packing up and moving his entire life far, far away.

And that's not even to speak of the…other stuff.

So he's stressed out. He knows what he would tell himself if he was a psychiatrist and hates that he knows what he would tell himself, because the voice isn't his voice. It's not really anyone's voice, and maybe that's another defense mechanism.

Hypervigilance. Depression. Seizing control through routine. Probably a laundry list of other issues that existed even before Mischa, before moving, before…

Before.

Will sighs, closing his eyes and resting his forehead against the cool fridge door. He needs to clean, and go shopping for food, and follow up about some kind of part time daycare so he can get a job. His savings are hemorrhaging money and he's going to go negative the month after next, so he needs to start earning _now_.

He grits his teeth, breathes out slowly. _Alright._

The coffee machine beeps, and Winston woofs quietly, a split second before Mischa starts crying. Perfect timing.

Will can't sleep.

It's eleven in the morning. He managed to arrange grocery delivery – it still counts even though that delivery fee and tax made him almost bite through his tongue, at least it means dealing with fewer people who will see how young his child is, how unmarked his neck is, and level him with their judgmental eyes. Ordering delivery gave him enough time to attempt the laundry. He doesn't know if he'll have the energy to hang the more delicate things, or just throw it all in the dryer and pray, but that's a problem for his future self.

He tends to put a lot of things on his future self.

Right now his _present_ self can't sleep, and he has maybe another hour before Mischa wakes up from her nap, and then she won't go back to sleep until midnight at the earliest no matter how hard Will tries to get her to go down, so he needs to get this nap _now_.

He stares at the clock on his beside table. Counts seconds when sheep don't work. Tries not to think about how large the space behind him on the bed is, or how open and empty the room is, how thin the curtains blocking out the light.

He doesn't feel…safe, here, he realizes. It's not the same feeling he's had before, when in actual danger. It's not even the same unsettling feeling akin to walking home alone at night.

It's not the presence of a threat, merely the _absence_ of safety. There's nothing here that makes him feel different than being anywhere else. It's displacement, being unmoored in the middle of a completely placid lake.

He closes his eyes.

A moment later, he opens them again. Sleep isn't going to come for him. Will shoves himself upright with a grumpy huff and goes back downstairs.

He's losing this hour that should be filled. He needs to do something. If he stays in bed trying to sleep he'll just become more irritable, and he'll have time to _think_ , which is the most dangerous idea right now. Will's brain is just as deadly as any weapon, and it has no qualms about being used against him.

He could…mow the lawn, no, the grass is wet, it'll clump and fuck up the lawnmower. He could sweep and vacuum – no, that'll wake Mischa. Will rubs a hand over his face, pinches the bridge of his nose, and squeezes so tightly it brings tears to his eyes.

 _You could check_.

That voice that doesn't sound like a psychiatrist gets so loud when Will can't sleep.

Objectively, Will knows that it's not a terrible idea in and of itself. Will ran away from someone and took their child with him. If the courts are as sexist here as they are in the States, it could be declared anything as dramatic as kidnapping. Because Will took her away. The fact that she wasn't even born yet wouldn't matter, depending on the laws here.

So, when he'd first left, he'd checked. Just to make sure no one was following him. To make sure Freddie hadn't gotten a hold of the story – he can see it now, disgraced FBI profiler gets knocked up by his own therapist and runs away with their kid.

He didn't take any alcohol with him when he left, between being pregnant and now nursing, but Goddamn could he use a drink.

Will sighs, and sighs. It seems like all he does it sit around and sigh and sigh. There aren't a lot of options for meds for people in his condition, and the ones that do exist usually need an Alpha's signature of approval, which Will doesn't have and is in no state to get. So he's dealing with it, with naps and control issues and nightmares.

His future self probably hates his guts.

He's moving into the living room and opening his laptop before he can convince himself otherwise. And of course _TattleCrime_ is still open. Will doesn't like to think of himself as compulsive, but…

Well.

He refreshes the page, and isn't sure if he's holding his breath or refusing to take another. But his lungs burn either way. His fingers flex on top of the keys, his heels rub against the floor until they feel far too tender.

The page refreshes, blinking blank for a moment before the various ads and pictures come in one by one. Will closes his eyes and sets his laptop to one side, and draws in air. He puts his thumbs to his opposite wrists, one then the other and back again, rubbing the pads of his thumbs over the delicate web of veins in them. Then, both sets of fingers behind his head, at the base of his skull. Working down, like counting inches, either side of his spine until he reaches the base of his neck. Back up. Down again, until his breathing starts to unconsciously mimic the rhythm and he doesn't burn as bad anymore.

He opens his eyes and stares down between his bare feet. Makes his toes curl in time with his breathing too; visuals combine with physical sensation to achieve maximum results. Will forces himself to keep his eyes open, blinking only when he's touching the base of his neck, open when he runs his fingers up. It becomes unconscious, after a long time, and he feels less panicky, less like his heart is about to burst out of his chest.

The fact that he's needing to self-soothe just from the idea of looking at the website is a pretty big clear indication that he shouldn't go further, but Will has an hour to kill and no sense of self-preservation.

What's the worst that could happen? He sees his own face? He sees _his_ face? He sees nothing at all?

Will closes his eyes one more time, counts to five, and straightens, pulling the laptop over again. Like ripping off a band-aid. At least this band-aid didn't require adopting out six dogs and sailing across an ocean. Will winces at the familiar red border and title of the website, a little too garish to be the true color of blood, though he's sure that's what Freddie was going for.

He skims the list of titles and recent articles, along with the thumbnails, looking for anything that might catch his eye. Freddie doesn't just cover Baltimore, and the cases Will was yanked into; she does some in Virginia, some in West Virginia, a couple in Pennsylvania. Woman's a thousand different places at the same time. Will has no idea how she has the fucking energy.

Then again, locusts rarely get tired. He's never seen a vulture sleeping.

Will only allows himself to indulge in this once a week. Never more than that, that's how addictions happen. He goes back a week, finds the last one he can remember reading the title for, and works his way forward from there. A few conspiracy theories, a home invasion, two missing persons… Nothing about Will, or Jack, or…anyone else Will left behind.

Good.

Probably.

Will closes his laptop and pushes it off his lap, to the side. He has long ago stopped trying to fight back the surge of irrational anger whenever another week goes by and, still, no new kills. He has no right at _all_ to demand an emotional response, not after what he's done. They weren't bonded. Will ran away and didn't even tell him about Mischa.

By all rights, Will should be a blip on the radar of a man like that. They were only together for the course of one heat, after all.

Will tilts his head back and clenches his eyes tightly shut for three seconds, then opens them and stares at the ceiling. Well, nothing new. Good, probably. If the Ripper hasn't made a nuisance of himself, then that means Jack has no reason to seek Will out either. He'll be left alone.

Will frowns. He considers the crack in the wall above the fireplace. It's surface-level, more like peeled wallpaper than any actual structural flaw, so he hasn't told himself to do anything about it.

Now that he thinks about it, he can't remember the last time the Ripper did…anything. Will refuses to call him anything else. Separation is easier. Not thinking his name is easier. It's probably something his future self can hate him for, later.

Will frowns at the wall. When did he eat last? Is he hunting in secret? The Ripper _has_ had long stretches of silence, for reasons Will sees now as obvious, but a year is a very long time to go hungry. And why would he stop? If he'd been caught Will would absolutely have read about it. Maybe he moved away?

Oh God, what if he moved away?

Somehow, that thought distresses Will more than anything else. He can't just…not be there. What if Will wants to come back? What if he needs something from him? If he's not in Baltimore then he could be anywhere and that thought makes Will feel…not unsafe, but definitely not comfortable either. He can't have just _moved_ , no, that's not fucking acceptable.

Will is outright glaring at the crack in the wall now. It's right next to one of his baby monitors, and he can hear Mischa performing her little chorus of pre-wakefulness burbling and hiccupping cries. She'll wake up soon. He tilts his head and hears Winston padding down the stairs as if to come collect him. Will holds out his hand and Winston puts his muzzle in it, tail wagging back and forth.

Winston's eyes are dark, big and round like he's begging for something. He always looks like he's asking Will for something, and Will has no idea what it is. He stares at Winston until Winston's tail slows down, and he licks Will's thumb.

Will hums, and lets the dog go when Mischa starts crying.

Will is exhausted, and not just because of…everything that normally exhausts him. He can't fucking _sleep_. When he feels himself start to drift off, his thoughts turn to the Ripper, to the man behind them, and he has to bring himself to a screeching halt, which apparently means waking up and doing something to distract him.

His house is in impeccable order. There's not a single stray piece of dust or dog hair, nothing out of place. It both settles him and riles him up; he's used to order, from police training and then the FBI, and he likes things to be neat, but he's also Omega, which means there needs to be a certain amount of…comfort. Lived-in-ness. He's not comfortable in a museum.

But it's fine. At least it's better than living right on the border of squalor. His neighbors already stare at him curiously, he doesn't need them seeing the conditions of his house and calling child services. Will didn't plan Mischa, for a long time he can admit he didn't even _want_ her, but he'll be _damned_ if someone takes her away from him now.

So, his house is clean. His daughter is asleep, finally starting to sleep for longer than an hour at a time. Winston's bowl of food and water are full, and he's been taken outside enough times today that he doesn't even get excited when Will passes the door to the yard. Will has some job applications pending, but no one's called him back yet, and he can't arrange for a daycare or babysitter until he knows what kind of budget he's working with.

There's nothing to do. He can't sleep.

He refreshes _TattleCrime_.

It's not the most recent article, but it's by far the most prominent, with the title in all caps and the photograph dominating over half the page:

FBI STUMPED BY POSSIBLE RIPPER COPYCAT.

Will stares at the title, and at the image above it. It's of Jack, looking much more weary than a year ought to have done to him, a hand over his mouth, partially turned away from the camera and speaking with a uniformed officer Will doesn't recognize.

Will can imagine Freddie now, hidden within a crowd of paparazzi. While everyone else is zeroed in on the kill, she's documenting the reactions. He wonders if she was looking for him. How she felt when he wasn't present. She'd probably love to correlate the Ripper's return with Will working for the FBI again.

Further down the article are pictures of the actual crime scene. Will wants to scroll past them, he doesn't want to look. He's forced himself to close off that section of his mind completely. That way monsters lie – crime scenes he looks at through new eyes, now. Ignorance really was fucking bliss.

He doesn't even let himself watch fictional shit anymore. If nothing else, the inaccuracies will just annoy him.

So he wants to scroll past. By God, does he want to. But something catches his eye – the poses, the lighting, he doesn't know what. But it catches him like a fish on a Goddamn hook, and he stops scrolling.

He clicks on the image to enlarge it.

He zooms in.

He stares.

It's of two men. Their eyes are greyed out, so he doesn't know if they were Alphas or Omegas, but he can guess. He doesn't like to stereotype but Omegas tend to have a certain look about them that Will recognizes. Maybe it's like calling to like – some kind of mutation that lets them recognize each other even in death. There's safety in numbers, after all.

What catches his attention is the position. One of the men is on his feet, posed as though in mid-stride. A long metal pole sticks through his chest, backwards at an angle, impaling him to the ground. His right ankle has been bound to the stake, dragged back. The other is upright to keep the corpse's balance. The second man is on his knees, reaching out to the first. His hands have been cut off and thrown out to the side of him, discarded like trash.

Will's upper lip twitches.

The standing man's head has been cut off, and placed on the tip of the spear, looking backwards and down upon the kneeling man, lips and nose sewn into a wrinkled, derisive sneer. He looks like the Omega. He has wild brown hair.

Will's fingers flex.

Well, if it's a copycat, then it's a damn good one.

The bodies were found in Bull Run, Virginia. That's close to where Will used to live. Half again the distance away from Baltimore. So he…the Ripper didn't leave. He's still where he should be.

Will lets out a slow breath. He closes his eyes, counts to three, and opens them again as though he might see a different picture.

Of course not. Death only moves in Will's dreams.

He skims the rest of the article, seeing the same string of sensationalist bullshit. Has the Ripper come back? Why these men? What does it all _mean_?

There is one sentence that makes him pause.

"It's been a year to the day since the Ripper's last gruesome murder -."

Will hesitates on that, and frowns. He checks the date on the article. Yes, it has been a year. More accurately, three hundred and sixty-nine days, fourteen hours, and eight minutes.

Not that he's counting.

"- which resulted in the murder of local fisherman Charles Price -."

Will's eyes widen. He sees the picture of the smiling man, smaller than the current murder. He's old news, after all. Charles Price – "Please, call me Charlie". He's the man who sold Will his getaway boat. The one Will snuck to in the middle of the night so that he could run far, far away from the monster he loved.

 _Fuck_.

Will puts a hand over his mouth so that he doesn't make a sound. He doesn't want to get Winston riled up by whining, and Mischa's got hearing like a Goddamn bat, it's why she doesn't sleep that well. Will has read about that; it's pretty common in children that don't have the opportunity to imprint on their Alpha parent. Will robbed her of that.

He wants to look at the two men again. He wants to _look_ , to _see._

But he's always had a habit of escalating. If he starts, where does it end? Back in Baltimore? To his death? What about Mischa? He has no idea if _he_ even wants children. He could kill her just to spite Will. He never got a chance to bond with her, he wouldn't _care._

The Ripper wouldn't _care_.

Will shuts his laptop with a snarl and shoves it to one side. He needs a fucking drink.

_Longing._

That's what it was.

Will comes to this revelation five fingers of whiskey deep. He wants to pour more, but if Mischa needs him then he doesn't want to be drunk. Winston makes a capable nursemaid, but he doesn't have thumbs, so if she needs food or to be changed, that's all Will.

He pours himself another glass anyway. Cuts his teeth on the ice in it, half-melted. As always, the Ripper isn't subtle. Will has no illusions under what he was trying to imply with his little display, combined with the date. The day Will left, a little over a year ago. Without a word of warning – he wasn't going to risk a serial killer trapping or killing him if he tried to leave.

If the Ripper is trying to communicate some kind of desire to reconcile, he sure took his damn time. A year is a long time, especially to a killer with his kind of compulsions. He could have hunted in secret, Will supposes, but then why the sudden break in radio silence?

He doesn't know Will knows. Will never said anything. Once he learned, he left. It came right after Will found out he was pregnant, too, so he never told him. Unless he smelled it first. Guy can smell stomach cancer and encephalitis, he can probably smell a pregnancy.

The thought causes a shiver to run down Will's spine. He's not sure if it's revulsion, and doesn't try to figure it out for the sake of self-preservation.

If this is the Ripper, and he meant for the message to reach Will, he won't stop at just one. There will be another. Another murder he can prevent. Another life he can save.

He thinks of Mischa, upstairs, and swallows his next glass of whiskey in one gulp. No. No one's life matters but hers. Nothing is worth risking her.

The second murder tests that resolve.

It's just one man this time, but Will can tell another body was taken to perfect the piece. _Two households, both alike in dignity._ One man, the base upon which the other man has been laid, is the darker of the two, tanned and broad and able to hold his smaller, paler friend in his arms. Patches of skin have been shared between them, touching one palm to another, fingers laced as though in prayer. That holy palmer's kiss. Will can't breathe.

The chest has been torn open, two hearts placed within, similarly sewn together so that one is consuming the other, symbiotic and endless as the world serpent eating its own tail. Though the darker man's face remains intact, Will knows his eyes have been replaced. His hair, sewn in, flat ash mixed with earthy brown waves.

Will stares, his fingers tracing the screen that does this scene absolutely no justice. Freddie is a good photographer but she can't capture the aura, the energy, the stench of death. She can't see the smiles in the circle cut of fangs, the unevenness of the composition. The stitches are impeccable, the seams almost invisible save for the color of the different fabrics, but that is not what draws his attention.

The skin was not cut off. It was torn, by teeth and bare hands. The Ripper loved his creation so much he had to taste it, with the same devotion and curiosity as a child coming into its own in the world. Will has seen it, in Mischa – her sense of taste is her strongest and most honest sense, she puts everything in her mouth to test its existence. This holds the same need, as though the Ripper seeks something to slake his thirst or cure his hunger. To sink his teeth into a willing neck, to suckle and lick, to grind and melt together into one.

Will knows this was meant for him. An homage, even if the Ripper doesn't know if Will sees it.

What strikes him most about the entire thing, he thinks, though it's all such a powerful wave of emotions it's hard to identify what hits the hardest, is that the man – the two men – were pristine. Except for the tears. Will can't know for certain, but he doesn't think they belonged to either of the two victims.

 _Sloppy_ , he thinks to himself, and closes his laptop with a vicious snarl. His heart is racing in his chest and he feels like he's going to be sick. Nausea was his constant companion during his pregnancy, even after the common rumor that it would fade into the second trimester. He had been sick right up until she had been born. Maybe it was bond sickness, he can't be sure.

He feels it now. There's a hook in his chest, tugging, back West, back to America. And he wants to go. He wants to go somewhere he felt safe. _His_ house had been safe. He has never hurt Will, never even tried. After Will's heat, he had soothed and bathed him, held him like Will was something precious.

The memory makes his eyes burn and his throat feel tight. He aches, so badly it doesn't feel like he's alive anymore. They swore they wouldn't bond, but that's like storm clouds rumbling and heavy promising not to break open and spill their rains. It's simply something that has to happen, through the rotation of the Earth and the movement of the tides.

If they hadn't bonded, Will wouldn't have gotten pregnant. It's an old wives' tale that has enough basis in scientific evidence to be taken as fact. If he knew he'd gotten Will pregnant, he would have never let Will leave, Will knows that as fact as well.

He's not sure he would have wanted to leave. His doting behavior, his kindness, his gentle affection keeps Will warm at night even now, when loneliness threatens to devour him whole and he's left panting and reaching for a source of warmth that isn't there. He _aches_ , fuck he aches so badly.

So does the Ripper. Will can see it, in his kills and the shine of tears on his victims' faces. Will's own eyes flood with them, he wants to curl up on his couch and hide away from the world. He wants to take his daughter and go home, where he's safe. But the Ripper isn't safe, he's a killer, he'd be angry, he'd destroy their family for the sin of separation.

Will doesn't know this as fact. He doesn't believe it, but he dares not risk being wrong. Being right. Being there.

He puts his hand over his mouth, brings his knees to his chest, and prays Mischa sleeps a little while longer so that he's not still crying when he has to go feed her.

Will wakes to a noise. It's a growl, low and threatening. It's coming from Mischa's room. At once, every inch of him is on high alert. He rises from the couch, wiping the tears from his face that dried there, and prowls through the darkened house. Above his head is the creak of a floorboard and the stench of an Alpha.

His upper lip curls back. Winston is in Mischa's room, since Will fell asleep without closing the door. Her cries didn't wake him, so she must still be asleep. His heart is in his throat as he creeps to the bottom of the stairs and breathes in. There's a gust of open air, the front door opened and closing behind the intruder.

Rage fills him and turns his vision black. Someone is here. Some foreign Alpha has come into his nest because Will is a single Omega with a child and he doesn't have something big and strong to protect him. He doesn't have a mate, doesn't have a protector aside from himself and his dog.

He goes up the stairs on his hands and the balls of his feet, distributing his weight so they don't creak. He can hear someone pacing down the hallway slowly. He can hear Winston snarling from inside Mischa's room, ready to defend her.

He gets to the top of the stairs, breathing slow and deep, the scent of an Alpha like poison in his lungs. It's not _him_ , he didn't find Will, it's something else. Someone else. Fresh meat. Will crouches at the end of the hallway, completely invisible in the darkness as he waits for his eyes to adjust.

There are footsteps, shuffling like a dead man walking. He's already dead, in Will's mind. Daring to come into his home and threatening his child. Mischa hiccups on the other side of her door and Will can see a slip of her room, see Winston standing guard, hackles up and snarling as another shadow. He sees a hand reach for the door.

He lunges, hitting solid flesh. The Alpha snarls at him and Will doesn't think, he can't afford to think. He sinks his teeth into the other man's neck and locks on like a dog, hands seeking weak points. One hand grips the man's jaw, the other reaches between his legs to squeeze his cock so tightly the Alpha lets out a yelp and a pained snarl as blood fills Will's mouth.

"Little bitch," he hisses, and clamps a hand over the back of Will's neck, fingers digging into the old mating scar. Will gasps, going limp on instinct, letting go just long enough for the Alpha to spin him around and slam him onto his side on the ground. Mischa starts to cry, and the fear combines with the rage as Will wriggles onto his back and the big Alpha straddles him. He punches Will, hard, snapping his head to one side as Will groans and claws at him, trying to fight him off.

"There we go," the Alpha purrs, easily pushing Will's hands away and clamping his wrists in one solid hold. Will's eyes widen as he's pinned, the hand on his nape sliding to his throat and squeezing tightly. "Just calm down, pretty thing." The Alpha leans down and sniffs noisily at Will's hair, and Will suddenly recognizes his scent. He's the grocery delivery guy, who brought Will food the other day. Will snarls at him and headbutts him, off-angle but solid. The Alpha snaps his teeth together by Will's ear, prompting him to go still. The Alpha laughs. "That's it, just relax," he purrs. He drags his nose along Will's hairline again, making a heavy shudder of revulsion run down Will's spine. "Gorgeous thing like you, should have come back sooner. Can't believe you're unclaimed."

He's not. Will's entire body and soul howls against the idea. He's not unclaimed, he isn't.

"Shame about the kid," the Alpha continues. "But it's okay. I'll put a new one in you and we can forget about that little bastard soon enough."

Will snarls at him. _No_. There's no way he's going to allow that. Mischa is _his_ baby, she's the only thing Will still has of his safe space. He's more outraged at the idea of getting rid of her than the Alpha's implication that Will is going to be fucking assaulted in his own house.

But he knows how to play this. He's a damn good fisherman, after all, and those instincts don't fade away with time or distance.

He sighs, and forces his voice high and sweet. "Finally," he murmurs. The Alpha smiles against his cheek. "I was hoping you'd come back."

The Alpha laughs, his hands loosening on Will's throat and his wrists. "Of course, baby," he replies. "I wasn't going to let a pretty thing like you go to waste."

Will controls his snarl. He swallows, and closes his eyes, biting back his revulsion as he whimpers and rubs his cheek against the Alpha's. "Can I touch you?" he whispers, gently testing the Alpha's hold on his wrists. "Please, Alpha. Please?"

He lets go of Will, and Will wraps his arms around his waist, spreading his legs even though the Alpha is still on top of him. He slides his hands up the man's back as the Alpha starts tugging at Will's loose shirt, pushing it up to bare his stomach. "Such a sweet little thing," he rasps, and Will grits his teeth when he feels the Alpha's cock rutting against his soft one. "You're gonna be such a good breeder for me, aren't you?"

" _Yes_ ," Will gasps, making his voice thick with desire. He growls when the Alpha kisses him, recoiling from it like it was a blow. His cheek aches when he snarls, and slides his hands under the man's arms, up his chest. To his throat.

He bucks his hips up and tightens his grip on the man's throat, rolling them and slamming him down onto his back. Mischa shrieks in protest at the sound, as the Alpha snarls and tries to claw at Will's hands. "Shh," Will whispers, grinning. He widens his knees so the Alpha can't kick him off, tightens his grip, digs his nails into the savage bite mark and feels fresh blood gushing around his fingers. He leans down and grabs the man's throat, lifting his head and slamming it back on the floor. He hears a crack, hears a groan.

He does it again, and again, until the man stops struggling. He pulls one hand back, still choking with the other, and rains blows down onto the man's face until his own knuckles bruise and crack apart, until he feels bone cave beneath the force of his blows, until the only sounds are slick and heavy and Will feels his skull give, splintering apart.

It feels _good_. Fuck, it feels good, to let out the year of longing, of hopelessness, of rage out on this stranger. He keeps punching, long past the point he knows the man is dead. He hears Winston's growls go silent, knowing that Will has a handle on the situation now. Mischa even quiets to little burbles, as though curiously listening to her mother destroying the threat to their nest.

Will snarls, and pulls his hands back, leaning down and sinking his teeth through the Alpha's throat, tearing out his pound of flesh with a single brutal bite. Blood fills his mouth, hot and thick. He swallows it and takes another piece, it's like a beast has awakened in him, telling him only to destroy, to devour, to dominate.

He rakes his claws through the man's shirt, through his skin, ripping it into pieces until he touches hard bone and thick cartilage. It takes strength to rip open a man's ribcage with his bare hands, strength that Will doesn't have.

 _He would help me_.

Will gasps, going still, adrenaline fading from him as he blinks down at the black stain on the floor. His hands shake, aching from the rain of blows. He can see it, now. His mate, coming home from work, seeing that Will has destroyed an invader to their home, a threat to their family. He closes his eyes, whimpering as a phantom hand goes to his hair, a warm purr, no less familiar through time and distance, rumbles in his ear.

"Beautiful," he would say. He would call it beautiful. He would help Will tear this man to shreds, handfeed him the pieces, cook his heart and his liver and the cuts of his thighs to nourish Will through the resulting heat his presence and pride would induce. He would keep Will bloody and raw, lick his kill from his lips, bathe them in red, and plant another child in Will while his teeth sought out the bonding mark and reopened it, cementing his love, his adoration.

Will would feel _safe_ , in his arms.

He swallows harshly, tears in his eyes, and clamps a hand over his mouth so he doesn't audibly sob. His shoulders shake. He pushes himself unsteadily to his feet.

Mischa looks up at him when Will turns on the light. Her eyes hold a curious, assessing air, just like her father gives. She gives Will a gummy smile as he picks her up and holds her tight against his chest, burying his face in her wispy hair.

He looks at the stretch of his bloody hands across his child. Looks at Winston, tail wagging and ears perked. Looks at the tiny bedroom and the body outside and the whole of this empty, unsafe house. Thinks of spreading the Alpha's blood all over the house, coating himself with it, running so that his Alpha can catch his scent and give chase. Thinks of howls in the woods and bloody mouths and brilliant, beautiful red eyes.

The ache in his chest is unbearable. Will isn't safe here. _Mischa_ isn't safe here.

Mischa coos at him, and nuzzles his bloodstained neck.

The longing sends him to his knees. To be held, and praised, and comforted. To have his hands cleaned and bound, his hair pet, his body lit on fire with warm touches and the promise of ecstasy. Their kind evolved from the muck of survival, only a truly perfect Alpha would want an Omega who defended their nest, who did not flee from a threat.

Will fled. He shouldn't have fled.

He thinks of the tableaux. The longing. The pride, the desire to become one. The first set, does the Ripper really see him like that? Discarded, cast aside, sneering down at this man who loved him so much he would have crawled on his knees, cut off his own hands if it satisfied. Does he see them as conjoined, devouring each other even in separation? Does Will's heart beat in his chest, does he ache for Will?

Will tightens his grip on Mischa and puts his back to the crib, sobbing as quietly as he can so he doesn't disturb her. She nuzzles him again, meaty arms wrapped around his neck. Trying to comfort him, as all children are wont to do with their Omega mothers.

By the time Will has stopped crying, dawn is breaking. A new day. A time for renewal, rebirth, redemption.

He rises to his feet, holding her to his chest. "Winston, come," he commands. The dog follows him out. Will always keeps a go bag by the door. He shoulders it, still covered in blood, and leaves without looking back.

Will shouldn't be here, but he is.

And he should be here.

He should never have left.

It's three in the morning when he knocks on the door, holding Mischa in her carrier and trembling from the cold. It's freezing, deeper than bone, like his body is going into another rejection episode. Like heat, the fever of it, has chilled him to his core. He aches. There's still blood beneath his fingernails and coating the inside of his mouth.

He almost doesn't expect an answer. It's the middle of the night, the witching hour. He might be asleep. He might be out hunting. He might be -.

The hallway light flickers on. Footsteps approach.

The door opens, revealing him. Hair mussed and flat, clad in matching pajamas and slippers and a thick grey robe. Will swallows harshly, flinching at the sudden brightness of the hallway light. He doesn't dare meet his eyes.

" _Will_."

His own name threatens to send him to his knees. He shivers, biting his lower lip hard, fingers creaking around Mischa's carrier handle. He looks up just in time for his eyes to drop down, and widen upon seeing the precious burden Will has carried alone for over a year.

He swallows again, and whispers the name he hasn't allowed himself to say, to _think_ , for far too long; "Hannibal." Hannibal's eyes snap up to his, dark and wide. He looks terrible, in Will's opinion. Like he hasn't slept since the night Will left. Maybe he hasn't. Will doesn't feel like he has.

Will looks down again. "May I come in?"

There's a moment of silence. Will braces himself for the rejection. Hannibal shouldn't let him in. He should tell Will to go to Hell and slam the door in his face. He should bring him close and put a knife in Will's belly for his betrayal. He should -.

He nods, and steps aside. Will walks in and immediately, the sense of _safety_ overwhelms him, in the familiar scents and the warm lighting and the elegant interior. He goes into the dining room and sets Mischa down on the table. Hannibal follows him like a wraith, the door closed and locked. Will is trapped.

He doesn't care.

Mischa frowns and burbles when the light comes on, blinking her eyes open with a fussy little cry. Will unstraps her and picks her up, holding her and soothing her with a weak purr. Hannibal gravitates to him, unstoppable as time itself. Will tenses, and turns.

It feels as though the world has stopped spinning. Hannibal's eyes are on the baby, _their_ baby. His fingers curl at his sides, mouth opening, closing again. It's the first time Will can ever remember Hannibal being struck speechless.

"Is…?" Hannibal finally manages, and clears his throat. His eyes shine and Will's are far from dry. Every inch of him feels like it's screaming in silence for forgiveness, for action, for _something._ Even if Hannibal beats him to a bloody pulp for his betrayal, for leaving, at least it's some kind of reaction. It would prove Will right or wrong. "Is he…?"

"She," Will corrects. Hannibal's eyes snap to him. Mischa wriggles in his arms. It's the first time she's been around someone that wasn't Will.

"She," Hannibal breathes, as solemn as a wedding vow. There's a smile on his face, as faint as the first light of dawn. "May I hold her?"

Will hesitates, but finally nods. He hands her over and Hannibal takes her with the utmost care, gentleness in every motion as he cradles her head and holds her squirming little body. She calms instantly under his touch, blinking up at him with her big, intelligent eyes. Hannibal's entire face softens, and Will clenches his fists. Seeing them together, Hannibal holding her like his most precious possession, a priceless jewel, how could he have doubted Hannibal would love her?

Mischa reaches up, paws a fist against Hannibal's jaw, and falls asleep a second later. Will sobs, wanting to curl up on himself and fucking _die_. He cost them so much time, caused so much pain. When Hannibal closes his eyes and presses his nose to her hair, purring so loudly it vibrates into Will's soul, Will collapses into a chair and puts his head in his hands.

"What's her name?" Hannibal asks from somewhere above his head.

"Mischa," Will replies. He looks up at the sound of Hannibal's answering gasp, and watches Hannibal fall into the chair next to him, like his knees simply gave out. Hannibal's eyes are bright with tears, his thumb gently soothing Mischa's chubby cheek.

"Mischa?" he repeats.

Will nods, pressing his lips together and looking down.

"My sister was named that."

Will nods again. "I remember," he replies. He didn't think of that when choosing the name, but he remembers now. It seems fitting, that she caused so much additional pain, that Hannibal already adores her, that she was the thing that brought them back together. Will's hands tremble, his fingers curling as Hannibal continues to purr, rocking her gently in his arms.

"Will," Hannibal whispers, an eternity later. Will looks up. Neither of their faces are dry from tears. Will thinks of the conjoined man and his chest _aches_. "Why did you leave?"

"I knew, Hannibal," Will replies. "I… I figured it out. Who you are. _What_ you are." Hannibal swallows. "I found out the day after I found out I was pregnant. And it fucking terrified me. I had no idea how you'd react to a baby, if you even wanted me, what you would do if you found out I knew."

"I…" Hannibal shakes his head, and kisses Mischa's forehead, breathing in her scent. His eyes close and Will's entire body is so empty and hollow, so broken apart. He feels like he's going through bond sickness all over again, so close to Hannibal, so close to being a family. He won't survive it a second time. Hannibal will have to kill him otherwise.

"I apologize if I did anything to scare you, Will," Hannibal finally says, and meets his gaze. He's earnest, he's fucking heartbroken. The pain in his voice makes Will close his eyes. "I never wanted you to be afraid of me."

Will knows that, too. If Hannibal wanted Will to be afraid, he would have been a lot more obvious about it. The _Ripper_ would have been a lot more obvious about it. There would have been promises of a hunt, there would have been stalking, messages in blood and viscera, the feeling of being watched. Will hasn't felt safe in a long time. He feels safe, here, now, with Hannibal looking at him with such open adoration.

"I saw the anniversary presents," Will tells him. "On _TattleCrime_. I saw your longing, I saw…" He swallows, looking down again. "I saw how you saw me. Rejecting you, sneering at you." He shakes his head. "I didn't feel that, Hannibal. My actions were motivated by fear, not hate."

"And now?" Hannibal rasps. "Have you returned to torture me?" He asks it with a smile, like nothing would delight him more.

It would delight him, Will realizes. Will's hate, his cruelty, Hannibal would take it all, because it would mean Will was with him. That is not the mindset of someone who wants to do Will harm. Those are the words of someone who put two hearts in the same chest, who ached and ached, who even now holds their daughter with the utmost gentleness.

"No," Will replies. He shakes his head for good measure. "I've walked through Purgatory and seen where it gets me. I see you now – I see what you really are." He reaches out and touches Hannibal's knee, his fingers don't shake. "I'm so, so sorry that I didn't see it sooner."

Hannibal sighs.

"I never felt safe," Will continues, meeting his gaze. "Not like you made me feel."

Hannibal smiles, and leans forward. Will doesn't flinch. He leans into it, just like he did all those months ago. The shiver that runs down his spine is powerful and promising, it's life and heat and home. It's his Alpha, the only Alpha Will ever wants to touch him again.

Hannibal rests their foreheads together. "Will you come with me?" he asks. "I'll cancel my appointments, we'll go somewhere quiet, and safe. We will wipe away the sorrow of this wasted year."

Will nods, fresh tears spilling down his face. Hannibal catches a trail with his thumb and wipes them away. "My darling, don't weep," Hannibal whispers, and kisses Will chastely. "I can't bear to see you in pain, Will. Please, don't cry."

"I'm sorry," Will manages, and lifts his hand to wind through Hannibal's hair. Hannibal purrs for him, purrs for both of them. He didn't expect Hannibal to forgive him so quickly, and maybe the trip is a ruse to do away with Will once and for all, but Will is determined to do what he can. He will offer his mind, his body, his love, his sorrow and guilt. He will place it all before the feet of his Alpha and hope it is enough to satisfy him.

He doesn't have the words for that, so he merely says, "I missed you, Hannibal. It's so good to see you, even if it's the last thing I do."

Hannibal smiles, and kisses him again. "I promise you, Will, a long and happy life with me, for as long as you desire it." Will laughs weakly, and nods. "I missed you too, very much." He kisses Will one final time, before he straightens, and reverently places Mischa back in her carrier.

"I brought Winston with me," Will tells him. "He's in the car."

"Let him into the yard, the weather will hold," Hannibal replies. Will nods, and stands when Hannibal pulls him to his feet. This time, his kiss is fierce and deep and makes Will melt against him, as eager and wanting as the last time he was here, in this room, with the promise of nothing but pleasure and safety fogging up his head. It's the same. It's better.

Will buries his face in Hannibal's neck and holds him tightly, his shoulders shaking with silent sobs of relief. "I don't want to leave you again," he confesses, feeling foolish for his reluctance to even part from Hannibal long enough to let Winston into the backyard. But Hannibal doesn't mock him. He merely tightens his grip on Will and nuzzles his wild hair.

"Then I will come with you," he promises. Will nods, taking his hand, and Mischa in the other. They go to the door, and before Hannibal opens it, he turns Will and presses a kiss to his knuckles. He pauses, his nostrils flaring as he scents the blood coating Will's nails.

Will smiles. "I killed the man who tried to hurt our daughter," he says, watching in pleasure as Hannibal's eyes darken, his nostrils flare again, his fingers tighten. The scent of his arousal is sudden and familiar and so, so welcome.

"We'll never be parted again."

Will's smile widens, his cheeks heating at the darkness in Hannibal's eyes. It's been so long since someone looked at him like that, since he allowed himself to feel anything that close to desire. It hits him like a freight train, warming his body and making his heart stutter in his chest.

"Never," he vows. Hannibal smiles, and kisses him again.

They put Winston in the backyard, and Mischa in the guest room in a hastily constructed nest suitable for an infant her age. Hannibal doesn't have a baby monitor, so they leave the doors open in case she starts to cry.

Then, Will goes back to that giant, luxuriously soft bed. He is pressed onto his back, mouth claimed and caught so that Hannibal swallows his noises and they don't wake their daughter. His body is brought back to life by Hannibal's skilled hands, slick and warm and ready. He claws lines into Hannibal's back, digs his teeth into Hannibal's neck.

Splits skin, when Hannibal does, reopening their bonding marks and slamming everything back into perfect, pristine alignment. Hannibal holds him so tightly as Will's body takes his knot, trembling in Will's arms. Will doesn't say anything about the wetness on his neck that isn't blood. He just holds, and purrs, and lets Hannibal make love to him until they collapse with exhaustion as dawn breaks.

Will doesn't know if they conceived Shannon that night, or if it happened when Will went into heat the next week, up at Hannibal's cabin, but he supposes in the grand scheme of things, it doesn't much matter.


End file.
